


Origin Stories

by pasiphile



Series: This Life Is A Trip (When You're Psycho In Love) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 20:31:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1401499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can never quite shake off who you were before you were <i>you</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Origin Stories

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Origin Stories](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2439629) by [KeJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeJ/pseuds/KeJ)



> Warnings for reference to bullying, self-harm, prostitution, implied child abuse, drug use, murder, torture, mental health issues
> 
> A big thank you to meroure and koni for betaing!

 

You're five and the woman you only ever knew as _mam_ is lying on the floor, still and pale, colourless apart from the marks on her arm. There are people coming in, saying words you don't understand, _overdose, child protection service, heroine_. There's one you do recognise, though, one you've heard shouted before: _whore_.

Someone takes your arm and pulls you out of the dirty stinking room that used to be your home. The last thing you see of her is a white sheet covering her bloated face, and you whisper _goodbye_.

You never much liked her, anyway.

***

_(In your dreams you never leave that place. You close your eyes and fall asleep and everything turns dark, you can’t see, can only hear the strange animal sounds in the distance and feel the freezing cold on your skin. There are things looking for you, prowling just a few yards away, and you daren’t move in case they spot you and you’re trembling and silent tears are running down your face and all you can do is think and imagine and thoughts skip over each other rushing scrabbling filling your head -_

_You wake up screaming more often than not.)_

***

You're seven and when your aunt looks at you she's afraid. You could say _just a game, auntie, a laugh, that’s all_ or _I heard someone else use that word, don’t know what it means_ or even _it was just an accident_ , but she won't believe you. She's seen what you really are and it terrifies her and when you reach for her, she flinches and steps back, face twisted.

Doesn't matter. There will be others, others to try out on, until you find a mask that works. After all, you know the drill by now: the anonymous phone call, social services swarming in, and two days later you’re in a care home waiting for a foster family.

Easy peasy.

***

You're nine and your knees are skinned and your stomach aches and everything hurts. All you want to do is fight back but your stupid skinny little body refuses to cooperate and you get up on your knees, slowly and painfully, spit blood on the tiles.

The other boys just look on, or turn away, pretending not to see -  _on your own, Jimmy, all on your own._ Not that you mind, you always did prefer being alone. After all, it’s not like other people, _ordinary_ people, are ever of any use.

 _If you can't be strong be smart_ , the school counsellor told you, another trite old saying that’s supposed to help, but this one sticks in your mind. You drag yourself up to your feet and look into the mirror and smile, even though the stretch of it splits your lip again and you have to lick off a bead of blood. You can’t do _strong_ , no, but you can do _smart_.

It hurts when you do it, of course it hurts, but it’s fine, it’s just pain, you know pain, it’s good. And it’s worth it: they can ignore scratches and little burns and bruises – _all kids have bruises, just rough and tumble_ \- but they can't ignore a broken collarbone, a wound so deep it'll scar. Punishment comes for the boys, inevitable, no matter how much they protest that it wasn't them, because _what_ , the headmaster scoffs,  _are we to believe he did it to himself_?

And you smile.

***

You’re twelve and there’s a too-large shoe dangling from your hand, the smell of chlorine in your nose, and finally the jeering has stopped, _you_ stopped it, and it’s perfect, _perfect_ , except -

Except there’s someone else, shouting at the police that _they’re wrong_. Dark curly hair and light eyes and an older brother pulling him away and he could be dangerous, that one.

Better keep an eye on him.

***

_(The nightmares never really stop, and they always follow the same pattern. Shadows, and pain, and you can’t move, there are things in the dark and your mind is whirring far too fast, skipping and stumbling over thought after thought and you just want it to stop but it won’t –_

_And you wake up shaking, naked, curled up into a ball. You unfold yourself, slide the mask back into place. Fight off the residual shivers, wash away the stale sweat, brush the bad taste from your mouth. By the time you smile at the mirror your eyes show nothing but cold mockery._

_Nightmares can stay in the dark, where they belong.)_

***

You’re fifteen and there’s a schooltrip, _boring_ , a guided tour, _even more boring_ , so you slip away and wander around alone, unnoticed, curious.

You take one good look at London's slick pavements, at the people hurrying along with a complete disregard of each other, at the centuries-old churches and houses and the shiny glass-and-chrome, all thrown haphazardly together with no sense for structure or beauty, and think _I'm going to have you_.

You close your eyes and start planning.

***

You're twenty-one and in front of you is a dead man - only he doesn’t know it yet. They never do, never see it coming, never see the plot twist looming around the corner.

“ _You're_ Moriarty?” he says, asks, squeals. Disbelief, always the disbelief; you’re never _quite_ what they expect.

 _Beg_ , you say, the way the others used to, and the man cowers and cries. And then _bang_ , and there’s blood all over your suit,  and you laugh and laugh because you always thought it was going to be difficult but it isn't, it's _easy_ , unbelievably so.

***

You're twenty-four and London is yours.

***

You're twenty-seven and at your feet there’s a man who suspects, no, _knows_ what you are and yet isn't afraid. He's the first one ever and he should die for it, because fear is how you survived; fear is what keeps you _safe_.

He moves like something feral and kills like he was born with claws, but he lowers his gun, smirking in something like challenge - but when’s the last time someone challenged you? - and he looks at you and keeps looking at you like he can't tear himself away, and it's -

\- interesting.

***

_(He's public school and Oxford and a pedigree that goes back centuries. He's callused hands and battered leather and a jagged shattered smirk, and cigarettes and bruised knuckles and hunting knives and semi-automatics and sniper rifles._

_He's violence and rage and ruthless intelligence and sex and blood and eyes the colour of smog. He’s bankers and businessmen and lords and whores and addicts and and and_

_He's London. Is it any wonder that you fall in love?)_

***

You're twenty-nine and there's a man sleeping in your bed, his arm thrown around your shoulders, thumb against your scar. He shouldn't be there, shouldn't have the taste of your lips in his mouth, shouldn't have your come drying on his thighs, shouldn't have a vicious smile that's just for you and no one else. Shouldn't – but has.

There's a man who works for you, who goes to his knees for you, who would kill and hurt and die for you, would do anything you ask of him and more. He's wormed his way inside of you and you should have killed him when you first set eyes on him, but now it's too late.

There's a man in your bed and he's _yours_.

***

You're thirty-one and finally you see _him_ up close, your mirror-image, your in-reverse, your nemesis. The tiles are a little less shiny than you remember, and if you close your eyes the walls still echo with your screams, and it's so _so_ appropriate.

 _Did I really make such a fleeting impression?_ you say, and there’s the disbelief, right on cue.  

You smile and laugh and flirt and yell, and his eyes skip over you, trying to make sense of you. He isn't quite clever enough but he's _fun_ , and inside you're flipping coins, _kill/let live/kill/let live_.

His eyes leave you and – ah yes, he's got a man too, with war singing in his veins and desperate hopeless devotion. Funny how that goes.

And then there are guns, and snipers, and explosives, how _exciting_ , and you can almost taste the searing heat on your tongue. This could be it. An ending, fitting enough, almost full circle, but...

A phone rings, business, you can't abandon London just like that, could you? And _he_ can wait, you have all the time in the world to play.

***

_(You can taste nothing but your own blood, your pain. The prison cell smells like locker rooms and what if you never left? What if London was just a dream? What if this is all you are, bruises and wounds and fevered imagination?_

_You look around and see nothing but fear and contempt and disgust, and it's getting tiring, this._

_And then you smell grass and mud, open air, out again. You open your eyes and stare into a pair as grey as the prison walls, hear a rough voice, come back, please, you bastard, you’re safe, and you close your eyes again and lean into arms that shouldn't be there but are, anyway.)_

***

You're thirty-two and your face is on all the frontpages. The courtroom is just another stage - _curtains draw, action! -_ and beneath your five-hundred pound shirt the scar on your collarbone aches.

He looks at you, hungry, rattling off his impressive little speech for the jury, the _I will get you_ clear in every look, every smile, every gesture.

 _No you won't_ , you think, already bored, and so many others have tried and failed and all you want is _peace_.

***

You're thirty-three and you're dead.

***

You're thirty-three and you're alive, surprise, didn't see that one coming, didya?

***

_(You're thirty-eight and the back of your head hits the wall, I thought you were dead, you left me to rot, you fucking cunt, and you laugh and laugh because resurrection, darling, really.)_


End file.
